Pickling

. . . everything springs from the deeply plural earth

The pickle exists through the simple act 
of preservation. Ever searching for the sea,
we mimic its salinity with a generous dousing 
of sodium chloride dissolved in scalding water 
and turn the whole thing over to vinegar, 
to the chemical beauty of mingling molecules 
agitating the turmoil of fermentation. 
Whether the tucked leaves of a cabbage head
suck the masala pungency from the brine,
or thin moon slices of magenta beets bleed 
from the sting of salt, whether mushroom caps, 
round and fortunate, or carrots accosted 
with the sweet spice of ginger root savor 
the brackishness, everything springs 
from the deeply plural earth. We store 
the marinated concoction and thus safeguard
our futures, stave off our own rotting, 
preserve all that is ancient and worthwhile 
into one crisp bite of vegetable love.